Troubled Water
by thecouchcarrot
Summary: Dean/Cas multichapter. Set right after the finale. Cas visits Dean one last time, and Dean is angry. Things quickly spiral out of control, and neither knows where this is headed anymore. Now Complete. Ch. 7: Time to say goodbye.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: _Hello there, fine reader! If you've read any of my stuff before, you know that I usually do pretty humorous fics. This is not one of those fics. There will be humorous moments, but this... this is a more serious story. It's set right after the season finale, and you saw that. It was damn sad. That being said, I make you a guarantee: things WILL end well. I'm not Kripke; I don't like sending my beloved characters to hell and back. That's why I write fanfiction, really - I like giving them the happy endings they can't have on the show. _

_Heh. Happy endings. Double entendre, eh? *wiggles eyebrows, then has decency to be ashamed of self*_

_It's Dean/Cas, all the way. Rated T; it should probably actually be M because of the f-bombs, but all the actions depicted are totally T, so I left it there. You guys can handle some swears, right? It's gonna be lots more chapters when it's done, though most will be shorter than this one. If you read this and you like it, please review. It'll tell me that people are reading and actually care what comes next. If you don't like it, please also review and let me know what bugged you, and I'll take it into consideration for future chapters. Please remember that this first chapter is pretty bleak, but things will get less messed up... eventually. Thanks, and on with the show. _

* * *

When the apocalypse was said and done, and humanity was allowed to continue ruining itself in the same fashion it had for millennia, Castiel told Dean he was returning to heaven, and he meant it.

A part of him had wanted to stay. The earth was wretchedly beautiful – breathtaking and horrifying at the same time. Murderers lived beside mothers, new lives were born and others ended abruptly, and all its inhabitants were bound together in a metaphysical spiderweb of love and hate and grief and hope. In short, it was endlessly fascinating. If Castiel was honest with himself, he found one human in particular more fascinating than all the rest.

But he knew his place, and more importantly, he knew Dean's place: here, with Lisa and Ben, carving out a more typical existence for himself. No grand reward, no heavenly sidekick, just – a new beginning. Castiel had regained his ability to read unguarded emotions and thoughts when he'd been restored, and he'd seen the plans in Dean's head. For once, he'd understood Dean's reasoning.

Lisa wasn't Dean's soulmate. Ben wasn't Dean's son. But they could have been. If circumstances had been different, if _Dean_ had been different, they could have fashioned a happy life together. Lisa was just his type: pretty, brunette, fun-loving, and kind. Ben was eerily similar to any son Dean could have hoped for: tough, bright, looked out for others first and had Dean's taste in music. If Dean had been the man he felt he was meant to be, they would have been the family he'd always wanted.

But instead, his mother had died in a horrible blaze, and his father had raised him on the road, and he'd grown up taking care of his baby brother, and he'd never stayed settled in one place long enough to marry a nice girl like Lisa, and so he'd ended up with a much different family than the nuclear threesome so often depicted in home furniture advertisements. Lisa wasn't Dean's soulmate; his real soulmate had been torn from him so completely, so permanently that even when Dean died and went to heaven, he'd be reliving his old happy memories alone. Ben wasn't Dean's son; the only child Dean had ever raised, doted on, taught how to be a man, and loved more than his own life was writhing in the pits of hell.

In Sam's absence, Dean had decided to make do with the next best thing, to build a new family in the ashes of his old one. Even though it paled in comparison, it was better than being alone. Castiel knew Dean would recover, someday. Human beings were easily damaged, but very resilient. They lost family members and loved ones every day, but they kept on surviving. Castiel knew Dean would survive this. It would simply take time and patience.

So when he found himself watching Lisa's house in the night, he wasn't sure what he was doing. He just had a nagging feeling, a gnawing sense that something was not right, that Dean was not alone. There was something following Dean, a dark presence he couldn't discern. Castiel felt that the memory of their temporary partnership alone was strong enough to warrant him warning Dean, telling Dean not to sink into complacency in his new life. Then he could return to heaven, his conscience clear.

However, when Castiel came to Lisa's house, silent and invisible in the dark, his heart lifted somewhat in the anticipation of seeing his comrade one last time. He wasn't foolish enough to think Dean would be glad to see him, but he wanted to see Dean. Make certain that he was truly alright, no matter what presence lurked in the shadows. Castiel stared at the house, peering beyond its physical foundations to see where Dean was.

At that moment, Dean stepped out onto the patio, sliding the glass door closed behind him. He was dressed in sweatpants and a dark green t-shirt; the night was warm and thick, and the shirt clung to his skin. Castiel was strangely absorbed by the sight, forgetting for a moment that he should appear and speak to Dean about the important reasons he had come up with for seeing Dean.

Dean padded out to the railing and stared out into the backyard, rubbing one hand over his mouth and jaw. His gaze was absent, faraway, like he wasn't seeing the backyard at all. He bent over, rested his forearms on the rail and suddenly – his entire body sagged, liked the weight of holding himself up had suddenly become too much. His shoulders hunched up to his ears and he sunk his face into his arms and shook, noiselessly.

Castiel knew with terrible certainty that Dean was not alright. Not in the least.

…..

Dean had been kind of pissed at the way Castiel took off, but he wasn't pissed about the fact that he was gone. Because yeah, Dean figured he deserved a little more than a mid-sentence disappearing act like he usually got (because who was Cas anyway, the goddamn Batman? Give a dude a little freaking _warning_, especially considering the whole "we just ended the end of the world" thing), but such was the nature of their relationship.

It was your classic_ Breakfast Club_ scenario. They weren't the kind of guys who would be friends or even acknowledge each other under normal circumstances. Neither of them had wanted to work together (okay, maybe Cas had at first, pulled Dean out of hell and all, but he'd figured out what a belligerent bastard Dean was eventually) but circumstances had necessitated it. They had gritted their teeth and borne it, and realized that hey, this other guy ain't half bad after all, learned life lessons, discussed their virginities, etc, etc, banded together against the greater evil and somehow come out alive. Now detention was over, and even though they'd shared something no one else would ever understand, they had to go back to the real world now. And in the real world, they both knew they were going to pass each other in the hallway and not say a damn word. Or some shit like that.

So yeah, when Cas had fucked off while Dean wasn't looking one last time (the flying bastard, probably did it just to make up for all times he couldn't do it during his brief stint as a human), Dean knew he wouldn't ever see him again. And honestly, Dean really didn't care. There was a hole in his heart too big to mourn the loss of one measly angelic asshole. Half of Dean had been torn away, and the wound just kept on bleeding, and bleeding, and bleeding.

It had never been this bad before. Dean had grieved before. He'd watched his mother go in the ground, but he was too little to really understand the implications. It hadn't sunk in until he'd kept asking for Mommy, and she never came, and Daddy was there but it wasn't right, he wasn't Mommy. He'd been sad then, but it was so long ago, his fuzzy child-memories had smoothed over the rough patches of his pain.

And then Dad died. And that hurt like a motherfucker, but if Dean was honest, it wasn't so much that he was _gone_ that hurt. The man had been gone for months at a time, a lot of those months right before he died. Dean had already learned to live without him. No, it was the knowledge that he was never coming _back_, and the fact that Dean was old enough to comprehend everything that that meant, coupled with the horrible burning guilt of knowing it was because of him that Dad would never come back. He'd been in pretty bad shape when Dad died.

And now Sam. Sam had died before, messed up Dean pretty well. And now he'd gone and died again, and this time he wasn't coming back, not ever, not for all eternity. It was un-fucking-just. For the last five years Sam had been Dean's right arm, his left leg, his shoulder to lean on when he got hurt, always ready with a gun and a steady aim, always nagging Dean to eat better and take care of himself and not have a deathwish and right now, it seemed like Sam had been some kind of sick sadistic bastard who had _wanted_ Dean to live forever without him. And hell if the sadistic bastard hadn't made him promise. Made him promise not to break the cage or die trying, made him promise to go back to Lisa and live some cheap knock-off imitation of a normal life.

Dean kept his promise.

Lisa, God bless her, took him right in. No questions, no expectations of payment or reimbursement. She pulled out her futon and opened her and her son's home to Dean. He'd made some noises about getting a hotel, told her he didn't think he'd have the money to rent a decent place for some time, tried to hint that if she let him stay she'd never get rid of him. She'd brushed him off and asked him how he liked his coffee.

She was curious, he knew, about exactly what had happened, but it took awhile to work up the courage to tell the tale. He knew she deserved to know, but for the first couple days he was tight-lipped, tense and quiet, feeling like he was holding his intestines inside himself with his hands and he was one slip away from all his organs falling out and spilling on the floor. Then one night, she put Ben to bed, opened up some booze, and it all tumbled out in a wet, hiccupping, embarrassing flood.

Over the next few nights, he cried some more, just broke down and sobbed like a baby, and Lisa was comforting and patient with him, rubbing his back and just – just _holding_ him like he hadn't been held since he was a kid. She understood what Dean needed and gave it to him without hesitation. Dean would have thanked God for her profusely if he and God weren't on such crappy terms. Instead, he did stuff around the house. Fixed a loose porch step, learned how to use the lawn mower properly (he still loved mowing, couldn't figure out why everyone hated it so much), did the dishes and trucked Ben around (which Ben frigging loved, and why wouldn't he? He thought Dean's car was awesome, and told him so, and damn if that didn't nearly get Dean's waterworks going again, but there was no friggin' way he was bursting into tears in front of a Little League team, so he held it together).

There was only one problem, and that was Dean's anger. He was so angry about Sam's death that he could scream sometimes; it would overtake him in the odd, quiet moments, pounding in his head and making his vision go black at the edges, and all he could do was clench his fists and breath in and out until he got it under control again. He didn't know what else to do with it. There was no goddamn way he could take it out on Lisa, he knew that for sure. In the old days, he would have hunted down some evil son of a bitch and killed it into next Tuesday, but that wasn't him now. Normal people didn't do that. Normal people got a stress ball and went to therapy.

There was no freaking way Dean was seeing a shrink. The stress ball was a toss-up.

At night, after Lisa went to sleep, Dean found himself taking an axe out of the back of the Impala (really, he needed to get rid of that shit but he just _couldn't_, an absurd part of him whispering that he might need it someday) and he hiked into a little grove nearby and hacked the shit out of this tree. The tree didn't deserve it, but Dean figured better a tree than a person, and he was pretty damn close to hacking up people. It was somewhat therapeutic, but it wasn't enough. Nothing could ever be enough when Sammy was still down there, jammed up nice and tight with the devil.

Tonight, he slipped out onto the patio to get some fresh air, half itching to get out that axe again and chop up another evil sapling, half wishing he smoked just so he'd have something to _do_. _That's what I need,_ he thought, leaning up against the railing. _ I need a cigarette. I'm not hunting anymore, I should take up smoking._

_Yeah, Lisa sure will appreciate _that, Sam's voice answered in his head, unbidden. _God, Dean, you want Ben to die of lung cancer? Seriously, you must have gotten concussed one too many times. Friggin' jerk._

And that did it. Something in Dean snapped, and he was suddenly bone-deep exhausted, and it was all he could do to keep standing. He ground his face into his arms, biting his lip and sobbing silently, trying to keep the rolling waves of grief under control because if he let them loose he wasn't sure they would ever stop.

He heard a soft noise on the patio, like a footstep. _Lisa. _He jerked himself upright, hastily wiped his face, and turned around.

Castiel stood there, staring with his sad blue eyes like _he_ was the one with a fucking dead brother.

"What the hell do you want from me?" Dean hissed, trying to keep his voice down. Lisa and Ben were sleeping inside, after all. "Thought you were going back to the pie in the sky."

Cas didn't flinch, didn't blink. "I came to warn you, Dean. There is something nearby, watching you, a dark presence." He turned his head to gaze out into the night. "It doesn't seem malicious, but it's hiding itself. I can't make out exactly what it is. You should be cautious."

For some reason, that only pissed off Dean even more. "Well, thanks a million, buddy old pal. You don't know what it is, you don't know what it wants, you just thought you'd drop by and give me a little peace of mind. Guess what, doucheface? I don't do the hunting thing anymore." He realized he was getting loud and checked himself, just barely. "If Lisa and the kid weren't in there, sleeping," Dean growled, jerking his head towards the house, "I'd give you a real piece of my mind."

Lightning quick, Cas reached out his arm, and a familiar ground-dropping-out-from-underneath-him sensation gripped Dean's stomach, and they were in an empty motel room. One he recognized, one he'd stayed in before.

Cas stood there, stock still. "Then give it to me."

Dean was boiling mad now, fuming, and there was no reason to hold anything back. "Okay, you want me to give you a piece of my _mind?_ Is that what you want?" he shouted. "For starters, if there's some 'dark presence' following me, why don't you just take care of it? You think you can drop into my life, drop some cryptic shit on me and fuck off again? It doesn't work that way, Cas, hasn't for a long time, and I am _done_ fucking fighting. I'm done! So if that thing is bugging the hell out of you, go kill it yourself. Otherwise, let it come and get me."

"Stop lying," Cas replied in that gravelly monotone, face hard. "You're anxious for a fight. You're trying to start one with me, right now."

"_I'm_ the one starting it? Oh, _that's_ rich. _You_ came to _me_, short bus." Bitter, hysterical laughter bubbled out of Dean, and he struggled to reign it back in, turning it into a snarl. "Stay out of my life, Cas! Stay out of my _head_, stay out of my _dreams_, and stay the hell out of my goddamn _backyard!_"

Cas cocked his head slightly. "It's not really _your_ backyard, is it?"

That was it. Dean lunged at Cas with a wild noise and started pummeling him in the chest, too furious to care that it didn't move Cas an inch, that Cas was an angel forged of freaking steel. He just kept pounding and pounding, bloodying his knuckles on Cas's iron ribcage.

"Stop," Cas said calmly, as if Dean weren't actively attempting to destroy him. "You're hurting yourself."

"I don't care!" Dean rasped, and he was mortified to find his eyes blurring up. The physical pain was so much purer and rawer and cleaner than the infected ache in his heart. He could handle this kind of pain. This kind of pain was his old friend.

Then Cas snatched his wrists in a vise-like grip. "_Stop_." And then the pain was gone. The bloody knuckles were clean again, the skin unbroken. The goddamn bastard had _healed _Dean.

"So this is how it is?" Dean demanded, incredulous. "You can beat on me, but I'm not allowed to beat on you?"

Cas's eyes flashed cold and dark. In an instant, Dean was pinned up against the wall by his shoulders, Cas's face a hair's breadth away from his own. A chill ran up his spine. _Oh yeah, Cas is full-on angel again. He can fuck me up _good_._

"I don't _beat _on you," Cas growled, sharp and dangerous, so close to Dean that he felt the rumble of his deep voice as much as heard it, felt hot breath on his face. "It was one time. You were being a reckless, ungrateful idiot and needed some sense talked into you. It's no fault of mine that _violence_ is the only language you seem to understand." He held Dean's eyes with his own for a moment longer. "You provoked me, and I lost control. For that, I'm sorry. It _won't happen again_."

And maybe it was that promise, or threat, or whatever it was, sounding like a challenge; maybe it was the way Cas's body was pressed against his own, screwing with his brain. Maybe Dean had finally cracked. But in that moment, all he could think to do was kiss Cas. He figured Cas would flip out and let him go, fuck off without a word and let him be. So he jerked forward to close the inch gap between their lips and shoved his tongue down Cas's throat, forceful and violent, prepared for an outraged fist to the face.

He wasn't prepared for the way Cas moaned and pressed him tighter against the wall, kissing him back and sliding one leg between Dean's, rolling his hips and _fuck _if that didn't make Dean hard, more aroused than he'd been for weeks. Dean kissed brutally, angrily, using his teeth way more than necessary, and he groped Cas roughly, not sure how long it would take Cas to give up and go home and greedily trying to get the most out of the moment. Cas just groaned and panted, "Give me a piece of your mind, Dean." It wasn't until he bit Cas's neck, _hard_, hard enough to leave a mark, and saw it heal before his eyes, that he understood.

Cas was an angel. Cas could take it. Dean could take it all out on him.

So Dean did.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: _Thank you _so much_ to everyone who reviewed! I really, truly appreciate it. If I could hug you each individually, I would, and no restraining order could stop me. Please keep reading and reviewing. _

_In other news, sorry this chapter took so long. Do you ever write a story with one direction in mind and find your characters going off in another? As if they had minds of their own? Yeah, that happened big time with this story. I kept rewriting and rewriting the beginning of this chapter, trying to steer my characters where I wanted them to go, and they kept belligerently yanking it in the opposite direction. Finally I gave in and just scrapped my previous plans. So hang on folks, it's gonna be a bumpy ride - Dean and Cas have got me by the short hairs._

_Also, I realized that I forgot to mention - the title of the story is a reference to the Simon and Garfunkel song, "Bridge Over Troubled Water." If you know the song, the symbolism should be fairly obvious: Castiel = bridge, Dean = troubled water. And now, without further ado, Chapter Dos._

* * *

Dean fucked Cas hard, fast, and merciless, pouring all his frustration and pain and misplaced hatred into it, rougher and more savage than he'd ever been before.

In fact, in the past Dean had been kind of a romantic about sex. He was enthusiastic with women, hungry and lustful, but rarely fierce – he'd always thought that sex should be fun, easy, a good time had by all. He was more likely to make a chick laugh than bruise her. In fact, Bela's proposition that they have angry sex (what was that, two years ago?) had unnerved him a little because angry sex wasn't something Dean _did_. Sarcastic? Yes. Playfully antagonistic? Hell yeah. But legitimately _angry_? Never.

But that was before.

Dean's whole life was like that now, split irrevocably into Before Sam died and After. Before, Dean had been a romantic. After, Dean was ruthless.

Cas didn't wince, or cringe, or cry out. He was steady like a rock, powerful, solid, this immovable force of nature that took what Dean gave him and responded with carefully measured control. There were a few times where he gasped in pleasure, and it sounded like he had done it accidentally, like he'd let it slip, and Dean was surprised at how much it turned him on and drove him to fuck even harder. It wasn't that Dean wanted to inflict pain – he wasn't a sadist, he didn't think. It was just that he _needed_ this, needed physical contact and release, and he just didn't have it in him to be tender or gentle. This brutal energy was all he had in him, all he was made up of these days, all he could give. All he had left.

After they both came and rolled off each other, awkward silence filled the room. Dean felt blessedly calm; he felt saner than he'd been in – a long time. Since Before. But then Saner Dean started to realize that, holy shit, he'd just had sex with a _man_ _angel_ – _mangel? _– and the silence got downright uncomfortable. Dean cleared his throat. "So, the heaven thing didn't work out?"

Cas was silent for a moment. "I haven't returned yet."

"Oh." That caught Dean off-guard. "I thought you were just itching to try out your shiny new halo." It came out sarcastic and sharp. _Shit. Wrong, Dean. What are you doing?_

Cas didn't seem to take offense. He just sat up and started putting on his clothes. "I had business to finish here."

Dean sat up with a grunt and turned his back to Cas to do the same. "Business, huh?" he asked sardonically. It was like poison coming out of his mouth, and he knew he was being an asshole but he couldn't stop it. "I figured my brother jumping into hell had pretty much wrapped things up." He bent over to snatch his shirt off the ground, feeling a simmering beneath his skin.

"You figured wrong," Cas replied evenly. Dean heard the zip of his pants and the rustle of his overcoat. "Nothing is ever that simple."

"_Simple?_" Dean stood up quickly, jerked his pants up over his hips and spun to face Cas. "You think that was _simple_? It was a frigging miracle, is what it was. It was frigging _Sam_." His breath was coming too fast, and all the calm he'd garnered from their exchange was slipping away. "It was fucking _Sam_, Cas, and everybody in the whole goddamn universe trying to make him to fail, getting him ready to fail his entire goddamn life, and he fucking _beat_ them, beat the devil and gave up his life and his soul and his goddamn everything." To his embarrassment, his voice cracked and broke, and he clenched his fists tight, squeezing his shirt. "There's nothing _simple _about that."

Cas was stiff as a board, frozen with tie in his hand and his face hidden from Dean. "I know," he replied, his voice hard and mechanical. His shoulders hunched the tiniest fraction. "I know, Dean."

Dean's mind suddenly flashed back to Cas standing in that Lawrence cemetery, totally human, calling an archangel "ass-butt" and hurling a Molotov. Moments later, nothing left of him but a spatter on Bobby's cheek.

Flash back to year earlier, Cas painting sigils in his own blood and breaking Dean out of angel prison. The next day, he was a tooth in Chuck's hair.

Cas fucking knew it wasn't simple.

Dean turned around and ran a hand through his hair. Remorse and regret flooded through him. He was a douchebag, but he was gonna make it up to Cas, buy him a coffee or something (did angels drink coffee? He should ask), swallow his pride and thank him properly for all the shit he'd done. Then he'd crawl back into a hole somewhere like the worthless son of a bitch he was and -

"Stop," Cas commanded, his voice much too near.

Dean spun and sure enough, Cas was right up in his personal space, just like always. "Don't blame me, and don't blame yourself," he continued, firm and quiet. "I didn't return to heaven, Dean, because I have business left with _you_. There is something following you, and I intend to discover what it is. You were not alone on the final battlefield, and you are not alone now."

Dean was stunned, speechless. He'd been so wrong. This wasn't _Breakfast Club_ at all.

Cas cocked his head, peering at Dean with a perplexed expression. "What is a breakfast club?"

Dean's eyes widened, and he stumbled backwards. "You can hear my thoughts now?"

"Only the clear and obvious ones," he replied, as if that were a significant limitation indeed. "And only when I'm in close proximity. Mostly I see your general emotions. Your pain is written across you like a neon sign." He reached up, hesitantly, brows knitted together, and put his palm to Dean's chest. "I would heal you if I could."

Dean's heartbeat skittered. "Cas – I – there's nothin' left of me, Cas," he stammered softly, trying to ignore the stinging in his eyes. "Nothin' left to heal. You – you heard me, a minute ago. I'm all venom. I can't be anything else right now." He shut his eyes, tried to shut out the warmth of Cas's hand. "If you stick around, you're gonna get the worst of me. I guarantee it."

Cas's hand pressed harder into his chest. His voice low and challenging, he murmured "Wanna bet?" And suddenly the ground fell out from underneath them.

Dean's eyes snapped open, and just as he'd suspected, he was standing on Lisa's patio, clutching his shirt and totally alone. Son of a bitch.

He walked quietly back inside, wondering what the hell Castiel had in mind.

…..

Castiel hoped with all of his being that he knew what he was doing. He didn't know what God intended for him to do, but he was fairly certain it wasn't "Go visit your former ally and attempt to comfort him by encouraging him to have violent intercourse with you."

To be honest, it had mostly happened by accident. He'd meant to simply warn Dean about the dark presence, but when he'd actually _seen_ him… He'd known that Dean was wounded, he'd seen him in the aftermath, but the Dean he saw now took his breath away. His wounds weren't healing and fading; he was festering, like an infected sore. _He's trying to keep it in_, Castiel had realized. _He's trying to keep the grief and fury inside himself, and it's killing him._

Castiel didn't owe Dean anything, not anymore. Any debt he may have held had long since been repaid. But for some reason, he felt as though he _had _to do something, as though walking away from Dean now would be wrong. As though leaving Dean to rot from the inside out would be just as bad as leaving him to rot in hell.

And when Dean snapped, lashing out at him for no reason other than his convenient proximity, Castiel understood what he needed. He needed an outlet, a target. Castiel knew he could be that for Dean. When Dean channeled his anger into lust, Castiel accepted it without hesitation. This was what Dean needed; Castiel could be this, too.

He uneasily realized he would be _anything_ Dean needed him to be.

Observing him invisibly in the dark, Castiel watched Dean swear under his breath and reenter the silent house. A warm, affectionate feeling uncurled in Castiel's stomach, and he once again hoped that he knew what he was doing.

…..

Dean got up early the next morning, the night's events distant and hazy like some bizarre dream. Whether it was a good dream or a bad dream, he wasn't sure. He drove Ben to school, checked the want ads, washed his car, tried to figure out the friggin' _vacuum_ but that thing was way too complicated and definitely possessed so he gave up on it, made a sandwich, and wondered what the _hell_ had gotten into him. He was full of this weird energy and that ever-familiar "I got _laid_" feeling, and it made things… strangely okay.

He was actually really good until he decided to use the computer and look up that how to use that stupid vacuum so he wouldn't have to ask Lisa. As he scrolled down the search results, he couldn't help but hear that voice in his head. _Shove over, old man_, Sam would have said. _Just let me do it. You're so slow, you know that? This is why _I'm_ in charge of research. _

_Shit_. Dean ground the heels of his palms into his eyes. _No goddamn vacuum, then._

Pretty soon it was time to pick Ben up again. It was a hot day, and when the kid hopped in the car Dean got an idea. "Hey, Ben. Wanna go get a Slurpee from the 7-11?"

Ben looked at him quizzically. "Is that like an Icee?"

Dean laughed incredulously. "You've never had a _Slurpee_, dude? Okay, we are _so_ getting Slurpees." He sped to the 7-11, explaining the drastic differences between Icees and Slurpees on the way.

When they got there, he showed Ben how to work the lever on the machine and they discussed which flavors they should get (Ben was adamant that they get different flavors and share because then that was like, twice the Slurpee). They sat on the bench outside and sucked down their icy treats (because no way was Dean letting the kid get in his car with a cupful of Blue Razzleberry in his hand), squinting in the sunshine and occasionally groaning "Brain freeze! Brain freeze!"

It was something Dean's dad had done with his boys. It was something Dean thought every kid should get to do.

Ben already worshipped the ground Dean walked on, and the Slurpee experience just strengthened his belief that Dean was some kind of badass superhero. When they got home Dean reminded him to do his homework (just like Lisa had asked him to), and Ben rolled his eyes but Dean knew he would do it. He was good kid like that. Dean watched him bounce over to the dining table and take out his spelling, and Dean's heart squeezed. _Thank God he's not mine_. Dean couldn't believe he'd once been stupid enough to wish that on Ben, selfishly wanting to pass on the Winchester legacy. _Some legacy,_ Dean thought bitterly. _Pain and heartache and suffering, that's all it is. More like a curse. Maybe _this_ kid will actually have a chance at happiness._

Dean left Ben to his spelling and, since it was too soon to mow again, decided to try his hand at hedge trimming. Before he knew it, Lisa was tapping him on the shoulder and offering him an icy beer.

"Thanks." Setting down the clippers, he took the beer with a smile of appreciation and tipped it towards her before popping off the top and taking a deep swig.

With everything that had happened, you'd think he'd be knee-deep in Jack Daniels. But honestly, Dean didn't feel right drowning his sorrows in front of Ben, in Lisa's home. It seemed like a violation of her hospitality. So, for the most part, he was painfully sober. Maybe that was half his problem.

Lisa smiled back and tilted her head, eyes sparkling the sunlight and looking just – picture perfect. "You know, Dean, I really appreciate everything you're doing around here."

Dean grinned and ducked his head. "Well, I'm just trying to earn my keep."

A look of protest flitted across her face. "Dean –"

"I know, I know," Dean interrupted her. "Honestly, I'm glad to have something to do. I'm not used to having this much time on my hands, you know?"

He could see her decide to let it go. "I can imagine." Then she propped her hand on her hip and gave him a knowing look. "Ben tells me you've introduced him to Slurpees."

"Yeah, I uh, I hope that was okay," Dean stammered, suddenly realizing that maybe he should've asked first. "It's just, he told me he'd never had one and I couldn't believe it. Sam lived for 'em when –" Belatedly, he realized what he was saying and stopped cold. He coughed, trying to loosen the sudden tightness in his throat. "When he was that age."

The teasing quirk of Lisa's mouth softened. "I don't mind at all. Just don't make a habit of it or all his teeth will fall out."

"Sure." He nodded, looking away and feeling off-kilter.

"Hey." A gentle hand came to rest on his arm. "I really do appreciate it, Dean. You've been a huge help to me."

He looked her in the eyes then, those warm brown eyes that always seemed happy to see him. "Same to you."

She smiled in a soft, kind way, and for a moment the air between them hung heavily.

This was the moment, Dean knew. He was supposed to kiss Lisa and show her _exactly_ how much he appreciated her, lavishing her with all of the meticulous attention she deserved. But instead of exciting him, the idea just… wearied him.

_I must be tired_, he thought. _I must just be really exhausted from these hedges_. But deep down he knew it wasn't the idea of physical exertion that gave him pause. It was caressing her, holding her, _loving_ her… He couldn't quite summon the strength. His heart was too worn and spent.

So they stood there, and the moment passed. Dean gave her a perfunctory nod and set down his beer, taking back up the clippers and finishing the job he had started.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: _Thank you SO MUCH to everyone who reviewed. You have no idea how awesome it is to read your reviews. It's like if my birthday and Christmas were on the same day, and instead of presents I got buckets of grade-A concentrated _win_. So thank you, readers. You are true humanitarians. If you haven't reviewed yet, know that reviewing _will_ secure you my everlasting gratitude and eternal admiration. _Can you let that opportunity go by in good conscience?

_Sorry. It's... really late. Or really early, depending on how you look at it. The best time of night for writing, the worst time of night for making sense._

_And now, I present you with an extra-long chapter. Hopefully, this will maybe (maybe?) clear up some of your worries about the dark presence, or DP as I like to call it. If you have questions, comments, concerns, well. You know what to do._

* * *

Dean spent a good part of that night wide awake, tossing and turning, the same thoughts tumbling and circulating through his mind. The way Cas's skin felt underneath his hands, for instance. The way Cas looked under his body: his pale neck arched back, mouth open in a breathy, barely-audible moan, eyes black and unseeing. The way he smelled. The way he tasted.

But each time, those thoughts were immediately followed by less pleasant memories: The way Dean's teeth bruised Cas's flesh, if only momentarily. The punishing pace at which he'd hammered Cas into the mattress. The digging of his fingernails into Cas's hips. The deafening silence of the room in the moments afterward. And the worst one, the absolute worst one was the memory of how much Dean had savagely enjoyed it. How much he had wanted it.

How much he wanted to do it again.

He disgusted himself.

Well, at least it was never going to happen. That was a one-time thing, a temporary lapse of sanity, and doing it again would be inexcusable. He'd gotten his rocks off, fucked Cas like he wouldn't fuck a ten-dollar whore, and let off some of the steam that had been trapped inside him since Sam's death. Cas wasn't going to oblige him again, not after the way Dean had gotten on his case almost immediately afterward.

But then there was the way he'd pressed his palm to Dean's chest, the concerned furrow in his brow and a distressed pull to the edge of his mouth. "I would heal you if I could," he'd said. And then there was his hot breath on Dean's cheek, and the dark promise in his voice as he uttered, "_Wanna bet?_"

Dear God, Dean wanted to find out what he meant by that.

_No, no, no, you stick to strictly business_, Dean chastised himself. _Cas is here to figure out this "dark presence" shit because, well, he's a freaking loyal friend, more loyal than you ever gave him credit for, and you don't deserve him. Next time he shows up, try not to bite his head off, maybe. Show some gratitude. Man, if he was human I'd get him a bottle of somethin' expensive, but somehow I doubt he'd appreciate that. _Dean mentally snorted. _What do you get the angel who has everything? A gift card to Wings-R-Us? _

The silhouette of Cas's wings materialized in Dean's mind, and it was only a short leap from there to Cas's serious blue eyes, his pupils going wide and his nostrils flaring, his hair wild and disheveled and begging to be yanked…

Dean sighed. It was going to be a long night.

….

Castiel stood guard over Lisa's house; Dean would have said that he was "lurking," but Castiel disliked the negative connotation. That strange presence tugged on the edge of his vision, but made no move to approach Dean or any of the other inhabitants of the house. It was hard to pinpoint exactly where it was; it wasn't so much that Castiel could _see_ it, but more that he very specifically _couldn't_ see anything right where all his senses told him something should be. It was shielded. Like he'd told Dean, it wasn't necessarily malicious, just suspiciously secretive. It kept a generous distance between itself and Dean, and whenever Castiel tried to approach it, it disappeared.

Whatever it was, it was either afraid, or cunning. Castiel hoped the former.

There was certainly no good reason for anything to be after Dean. Michael and Lucifer were trapped in the devil's cage, and in the grand scheme of the cosmos Dean's part had been played out. However, Castiel knew the inhabitants of hell didn't need good reasons; they just needed an excuse. Revenge was an old favorite, one they'd been using for centuries. Far be it from them to give it up now.

Castiel checked in on Dean and watched him twitch fitfully in his sleep. He was having a nightmare, the same one he'd had several times since that day in Stull Cemetary: Sam's fists slamming into his face, over and over, relentless. Dean begging, pleading for Sam to hear him, to make it stop. Lucifer's rage gleaming through Sam's eyes, taking savage delight in the sound of Dean's bones snapping. Dean knowing that this was where he would die, and praying for it all to end.

Castiel knew it wasn't his place. But he appeared next to Lisa's futon anyway, and pressed two fingers to Dean's clammy forehead, sending him into a deep and dreamless sleep.

…

When Dean woke up the next morning, Lisa was just leaving for work. "Dean, you're up! Great!" she exclaimed, fishing through her purse for her keys. "There's a half a pot of coffee for you in the kitchen, and Ben's lunch is in the fridge. Look, I hate to encourage you in your housekeeping binge, but I was wondering if you could possibly vacuum the den today. It's really the only thing that needs doing."

"Sure, no problem," Dean agreed, his heart sinking. He put on a plastic smile that he knew from experience looked completely genuine. "Have a good day at work."

"Thanks!" She flashed a brief smile and was out the door.

_Hoo boy. The vacuum strikes again. Well, it can't be that complicated, can it? _

An hour after he dropped off Ben, Dean was about ready to kill somebody. After messing with the frigging machine for fifteen minutes he'd figured out how to get it to turn on, and that had been just the start. It had this asinine retractable cord that kept retracting and trying to yank itself out of the outlet, and these tiny little wheels that didn't seem to want to turn, and damn it Dean had_ seen_ vacuums being used his entire life but somehow he had never freaking touched one until now.

He'd glanced at the open laptop on Lisa's dining table, its screen dark and lifeless. _Nope. Not going there. Can't go there today. I cannot fucking handle it today. _ Then he'd sucked in a determined breath through his nose and yanked that piece of shit cord resolutely. _I can do this. Breathe. _

Then, just when he'd gotten things all squared away and started really getting into it, the goddamn machine started _spewing shit everywhere, _making the carpet twice as dirty as when he'd started_._ Judging from the state of the clear plastic cylinder on its front, it was because it was full. So Dean unplugged it and dragged it into the kitchen and pulled the cylinder out, but apparently he pushed the wrong button or lever because the bottom of the cylinder suddenly unhinged and _dumped all over him_.

FUCK.

Dean stifled a scream of frustration and brushed most of the dirt and grime off him and onto the floor, and then got out the broom and swept it up. He emptied the dustpan into the garbage violently, and then he just _glared_ at that goddamn machine, and he could just _feel _the computer staring at his back, taunting him silently, knowing he was too afraid of the voices in his own head to just man up and find out how to use the goddamn contraption. He suddenly had an enticing vision of getting his crowbar out of the trunk and smashing it into tiny plastic pieces, shouting out in a sing-song housewifey tone, "Liiiii-saaa! The motherfucking VACUUM is broken!"

Yeah, he was losing it.

He squeezed his eyes shut and clenched his fists. "Cas, I don't know how this works now," he muttered. "I don't know if you can hear me, or if it has to be a prayer, so here goes. Please get your ass over here right now or I swear by all that is holy I will salt and burn this fucking devil machine right in the middle of Lisa's den. Amen."

"That's quite a prayer."

Dean's eyes snapped open. Cas was standing there, gazing at the vacuum, eyes light and amused. "I infer that this is the 'devil machine'?"

"Cas," he breathed, his frustration churning into something more restless, more volatile. It was strange; now that he knew what was under that trenchcoat, all he wanted to do was rip it off. He mentally shook himself, hoping Cas hadn't caught that particular thought. "Look, I know you don't owe me any favors, but I am way too tightly wound right now to deal with this shit –"

"It's already done."

Dean blinked and glanced over at the den. Sure enough, the carpet looked pristine. It should have relieved him, and it did, a little, but it was also just a little infuriating how goddamn easy that was.

"This isn't about the vacuum, is it?" Cas asked, his big blue high-beams turned on Dean. "It's about Sam."

"No, it's not," Dean answered flatly. He didn't care if the dude could read his mind, he was sticking to his story. "That vacuum is evil."

"Everything reminds you of him. It's painful, and you're trying to avoid it, but it's impossible, Dean," the angel continued placidly, his piercing gaze never faltering. "It's a futile endeavor."

"Shut up," Dean snapped hotly, his fists tightening.

"You can't avoid computers for the rest of your life just because Sam liked them," Cas said, that gravelly voice of his scraping across Dean's skin. "Sam liked a lot of things, Dean. The Impala, for one. He loved your car."

"I said shut UP!" And suddenly those fists were wound in Cas's lapels, and Dean was snarling, practically baring his teeth an inch from Cas's face.

"NO!" Cas thundered, some of his true voice leaking through and making the walls shudder, his eyes flashing and dangerous. The room suddenly got very tight and crowded. Dean knew without having to see them that his wings were out. "You may not want to hear it, but I am _speaking_ the _truth!_ I am concerned with your best interests, and the sooner you get that through your head the better." He glowered intensely, power radiating from him, making Dean feel small and insignificant. "Do not try and silence me because _you will fail,_" he growled darkly. "The only reason you are still standing is because I allow it."

And hot damn, Dean knew he had to be some kind of fucked up because he'd never been that intimidated and turned on at the same time in his entire life.

It turns out that Cas really was a mind reader, because a half second later they were standing in an empty motel room and Cas's mouth was on his, breathless and warm. Dean jerked away and gasped, "Cas, no, I can't do this again, I can't do it to you, but goddamn it I will if you let me –"

Cas took him by the shoulders and steered him backwards, pushing him down onto the bed, pressing him into the comforter. "You're right. I'm not going to let you do that again." And then the barest hint of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, and his gaze darkened. "This time, we're going to do it _my_ way."

A chill ran through Dean, and for a single instant he realized that Cas could do whatever he wanted and there was no way he could stop him.

Cas's smile faded, and his hand reached up, soft and reassuring on Dean's cheek. "Dean. I would never – if you don't want to, simply say –"

"No," Dean interrupted, feeling stupid for doubting him. "Let's try it your way." He leaned back on the bed, grinning, and sang, "_Hit me with your best shot._"

…..

When he had kissed Dean, Castiel had felt all the conflict and guilt that flooded Dean's mind. Dean wasn't built to be hard and demanding; his outward appearance was tough and merciless, but he was a lover at heart. He needed the contact, the connection and physical comfort of sex, but was too mired in pain and frustration to shower anyone in kindness and affection. Neither could he stand to abuse Castiel. He was at an impasse.

Castiel knew what he needed. It was the same thing Castiel had wanted to do since Dean had assured him that he was beyond repair.

He began with Dean's lips, kissing him light and gentle and soft. Dean was surprised, and tried to deepen the kiss, but Castiel pulled away. "My way," he reminded Dean quietly but firmly. "Just let me take care of you." And he began to lay quick, light kisses along his neck, relishing the small noises that vibrated through Dean's throat. He pulled Dean's shirt over his shoulders and worked his way down that muscular chest, kissing and caressing and feeling Dean's body arch toward him, begging for more.

Castiel continued in much the same manner, treating Dean as if he were a precious, fragile, invaluable object of worship, until Dean was moaning at the mere brush of his fingertips. He lavished him with all the tenderness and gentle attention that Dean felt so unable to give, that he thought he was so bereft of. He was very thorough, and very effective, and he quickly had Dean reduced to a collection of trembling gasps and shudders that only knew one word: _Cas_. He moved slowly, taking his time, and forced Dean to take his time as well.

And it was somewhere in a hot and desperate moment, when their bodies were flush together and Cas found himself unable to say anything but "Dean, Dean, Dean" that he realized: he hadn't wanted to do this since the day before. He'd wanted to do this since he'd looked into Dean's eyes and seen a man who thought he didn't deserve to be saved.

He loved Dean. He always had.

When they finished, they laid there for awhile, slowly regaining their breaths and allowing their pulses to slow down.

"Cas?"

Castiel turned his head to Dean, who was staring fixedly at the ceiling.

"I, uh. Wow, I can't even. You're – thank you. That was… really fucking good."

Castiel saw the embarrassment coloring Dean's cheeks, just barely distinguishable from the post-coital flush still tinting them, and couldn't help but feel pleased with his handiwork. He didn't say anything, but simply smiled.

Finally Dean's eyes flickered to his. "You know, when you left that last time, to go back to heaven and sort things out, I thought I wasn't ever going to see you again."

"So did I," Castiel admitted. Strange, how only a week ago that idea had given him but momentary pause. Now, it seemed vaguely impossible.

"Am I?" Dean turned his head fully to face Cas. "Going to see you again, I mean. After you go back through the pearly gates."

Castiel frowned. He hadn't considered the difficulties of such a concept before. "I… don't know. If I return to heaven, it shouldn't be a problem for me to come back but – this vessel. Jimmy Novak's body." He held his hand in front of him, surveying its beautiful intricacy. "I'll have to abandon it, and Jimmy's soul is no longer in it. I don't think I'll be able to return to this vessel. So…" He closed his eyes, oddly saddened. "If and when you see me again, I won't look the same."

Dean considered this silently, conflicting emotions flickering across his soul. The predominant one seemed to be _But I like that body_.

"I know," Castiel sighed. "Me too."

Dean glanced askance at him, slightly unnerved. "Dude. For the sake of my sanity, at least _pretend_ like you can't hear my thoughts."

Castiel adopted a wide-eyed, innocent face. "What are you talking about, Dean? I have no such ability."

Dean chuckled. "You know what, Cas? I don't care what anybody says, _you_ are the funniest angel in the garrison. Your sense of humor is light-years from where it was when we first met."

"I was inexperienced," Castiel defended. "Angelic humor is much different."

"Dude." Dean gave him a deprecating look. "You took me seriously when I suggested that God might be on a _tortilla_."

"Don't you need to get back to Lisa's?" Castiel asked pointedly, changing the subject. "We had better get dressed." He got up from the bed and began gathering his clothes.

Dean sat up, undeterred from his topic. "You gave me this blank look like I was mentally challenged," he chuckled, "and then you were all, 'He is not on any flatbread.'" His imitation of Cas was woefully inaccurate.

"Whatever look I gave you, I'm sure it was warranted," Castiel retorted, tossing Dean his pants. "And he _isn't_ on any flatbread, so I fail to see why my answer was so outrageous."

Dean laughed heartily and shook his head, pulling on his shirt. "God, and then when I took you to that brothel! You looked like a deer in the headlights – no, worse, because deer don't sweat profusely."

Castiel made hasty work of his buttons and began tying his tie. "That was not long after I first rebelled," he protested. "I was uncomfortable being surrounded by such sin."

Dean was still chuckling to himself, reliving the memory. Suddenly he trailed off, and paused, a sock dangling from his hand. "Hey Cas." His voice was carefully casual, as if that could fool Castiel when such obvious sickening dread was creeping up inside of him. "The other night, when we, uh, did it. That – that wasn't your first time, was it?"

"No," Castiel lied.

"Oh. Good." He could see that Dean didn't quite believe him, but was forcing himself to accept his words as truth. "Cuz that would have been a pretty shitty first lay."

Castiel threw on his trenchcoat and ran a few fingers through his hair. He didn't know if it had been a shitty lay or not, though it certainly paled in comparison to today's performance. It had been… stimulating, in a raw, physical sense.

"So, who was it?" Dean inquired, turning his back to Castiel and yanking on his shoes. "Bet it was some pious girl, right?" His voice had a teasing, conspiratorial tone. "Some preacher's daughter with a cross necklace. C'mon, at least tell me if she was a blonde or –"

And Castiel reached out and transported him to Lisa's, knowing he would be irritated but unwilling to perpetuate an elaborate lie.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: _My lovely, fantastic, immensely wicked cool readers. I have received your reviews, and they delighted me so. In return, I have slaved all day over the letter press to bring you my latest opus. In response to fears about Castiel's vessel, the changing thereof, and the superior pleasurability of imagining Misha Collins's lithe body alongside Jensen Ackles's, I have this to say: Your pleas have not gone unheard, but they are unnecessary. I direct you to my previous two fictions, and beg you to note the extreme fluffiness therein. I am no Joss Whedon; I am no Eric Kripke. I will not kill and maim everything you hold dear. _

_Seriously though, guys. Thanks for reviewing (sincerely, thank you), and trust me, I love Misha as much as the next girl. It's just, the vessel thing is a legitimate problem! It needs to be addressed. I have faith that you'll be satisfied with the way it all turns out. _

_In other news, I worked really hard on this chapter. If you like it, for the love of God _say something_ because I'm biting my nails over here. If you don't like it, keep your trap shut. Ha ha, just kidding. If you don't like it, please break it to me kindly and gently and in a soothing tone of voice, explaining what went wrong and perhaps consoling me with a lollipop. I'm fragile. But I need to know. _

_And here it is! _

EDIT: _Also, I put some stuff in my profile, so it's no longer blank. If you looked at my profile and were disappointed before, well NOW THERE IS A LOT OF WORDS THERE. Feel free to peruse it. __  
_

* * *

Sam and Dean sat at a table in the dark back corner of the tavern, working on a couple of beers. Sam grinned good-naturedly at the pretty waitress, bringing out those famous dimples, the ones that melted even the most hardened of feminine hearts. In their line of work, those dimples were always the cherry on top of Sam's "I am trustworthy and oh-so-harmless" sundae. From the looks of it, the waitress was eating it up. Dean huffed like Sam was cutting in on his game, but secretly he was pleased as punch, because hell. Sammy was here. And from the looks of it, he was gonna get laid, which Dean fully supported.

Then Sam turned his attention back to Dean, focusing in with that shrewd look that always put Dean on his guard. "So, how are things since I've been away?" he asked.

"Shitty," Dean admitted. "Reeeaaal shitty, Sammy." He took a long pull of his beer and swiped his hand across his mouth. "For awhile there I thought I wasn't gonna make it."

"But now." Sam sat forward and hunkered down on the table, and gave a tentative, lopsided smile. "You're making it. Now that Cas is around."

Dean avoided Sam's gaze, hooking one elbow behind the back of his chair and peering out across the dimly lit barroom. "Yeah. It's – I guess it helps having somebody else who was there, who knows, who gets it. It's been an improvement, that's for sure." He smirked, feeling his mouth twist a little bitterly. "I've upgraded from 'rock bottom' to 'rocky lower depths.'"

And then all of the sudden, something snapped in Dean. He was tired of being sardonic and brash, tired of hiding his true feelings beneath a veneer of sarcasm. Shit was gonna get real, tonight.

"To be honest, Sam?" he began, looking him straight in the eye. "Things with Cas are starting to get weird. Not in a bad way, necessarily, it's just…" He rubbed his jaw. "This is going to come as a bit of a shock to you, but. Uh. We're fucking."

Sam blinked, squinted, opened his mouth like he was about to say something, and then stopped. He blinked again. "Wait, what?"

"Castiel and I did the horizontal hula," Dean explained slowly. "Twice. And I get the feeling it's gonna happen again." He hesitated, but what the hell. This was full-disclosure night, apparently. "Honestly, I'm _hoping_ it happens again." And yeah, his face got a little hot at that.

It finally processed. Sam slumped back in his chair, open and shut his mouth a couple times, and ran a hand through his hair. "Well. Shit." He laughed abruptly and a little wildly, like the surprise was forcing it out of him. "I had no idea that – I thought you guys were just getting buddy-buddy."

Dean sighed. "Yeah. It's fucked up. And I don't know what the hell we're doing, what the hell _I'm_ doing. I thought it was gonna be a onetime thing but it's like the more I get of him, the more I want, and lately – I don't know. I mean, he's a _dude_, Sam. Not just that, he's an _angel _dude and I –" He shook his head, couldn't bring himself to continue.

"Look. Dean." Sam's voice was soft and sincere, and he leaned forward again. "I'm not gonna lie, this is weird as hell but – dude. Lemme guess. Cas, he. He treats you good, doesn't he?"

Dean swallowed. "Yeah. Hell yeah. You have no idea how good."

Sam twitched and gave the slightest grimace, his face saying _Dude I do _not_ need to know_, but he took it in stride and continued. "But you're freaking out because, well, it's pretty surreal."

"Surreal as _fuck_," Dean agreed vehemently.

"And it doesn't fit into your new life," Sam said. "The apple-pie, law-abiding wholesome American life with Lisa you were supposed to start."

Dean took a drink, staring fixedly at the salt shaker on the table. The kid knew him way too damn well.

Sam took a quick breath, licked his lips and tilted his head, hesitated. "Then the way I see it, if this thing, whatever it is, if it's working for you guys. If being with Cas makes me being gone a little more okay –"

"No, _nothing_ can make what happened to you okay," Dean interrupted fiercely. "Don't _ever_ think that, Sammy."

"If it makes things a little more _bearable_," Sam revised, "makes it easier to keep going, then none of that other stuff matters." He smiled, and slapped the table. "Screw propriety!" Sam had a way of embellishing everything with hand gestures, and it was in full force tonight. "For godsakes, Dean, we used to dig up graves, and hustle pool, and freakin', impersonate cops and FBI agents and doctors a-a-and _priests!_ And we didn't give a damn what anybody else thought because we knew what was really important." He shot Dean a significant look. "I think you know what's really important here."

Dean just chuckled to himself. "Dude, if I tied your arms down," he joked, "would you be able to talk?"

"Dean. I'm serious." Sam rested a hand on Dean's forearm, and his voice fell low and raw. "Don't let Cas go because you're trying to be normal. I didn't tell you to go to Lisa because I wanted you to be normal – I told you to go because I thought it would make you happy." His eyes were big and earnest and begging. "All I want is for you to be _happy_."

Oh God, the agony that ripped through Dean, like a jagged knife through his heart. "_Sam_," he pleaded, not sure what he was pleading for. He tried to keep his throat from tightening, his face from twisting, and failed. "How can I be happy when you're gone? Nothing's the same without you, man. " He could feel the hot dampness gathering in the corners of his eyes, the itching behind his nose that made his nostrils flare. To his chagrin, his lip quivered as he said in a shaky, halting voice, "_I'm_ not the same without you."

Sam's eyes glistened, and he squeezed Dean's arm. "I'm so sorry, Dean. I shouldn't have come here, I just – I just wanted to make sure you're doing alright, and I wasn't even sure it would work anyway. I should go."

"No!" Dean snatched his wrist, desperate and unhinged. "No, Sam, you can't leave me, not again!"

"I'm sorry," Sam choked, standing up from the table, jerking out of Dean's grip. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry –"

"Sam!" Dean cried. "_Sammy!_"

And suddenly the tavern fell away, and someone was shaking his shoulders, saying, "Dean, Dean, wake up," and his eyes flew open.

Blue. Bright blue eyes, staring into his, wide and panicked.

_Cas_, Dean suddenly put together. _Cas is flipping his shit_. And then,_ It_ _was just a dream. It was all a dream._ He tried to slow down his breathing, willed his heart to stop pounding, urged his stomach to stop turning. He struggled to sit up and Cas pulled him upwards, his hands still on Dean's shoulders.

"What happened? What were you dreaming about?" Cas demanded urgently.

Dean frowned, head still swimming. "I was with Sam," he answered. "We were talking."

"Was there anyone else there, anyone who stood out in your mind?" His grip on Dean's shoulders was painfully tight.

"Well, sure. There was a hot waitress… we were in a bar, there were a lot of people." Dean couldn't figure out what was going on. "Dude, can't you see into my head anyway?"

Cas's lips pressed thin and tight. "Just now, I couldn't. I couldn't see anything in your mind. Whatever's been following you – I think it was there, in your dream. And it didn't want me to see."

Dean tried to wrap his head around that, thought about what Sam had said – _I wasn't sure it would work anyway, I should go_ – like he knew Cas was coming and didn't want to be around when that happened, and the possibility of some dark slimy thing wearing Sam's mug around in his own mind made him want to retch.

"Dean." Cas was still there, still watching him closely. "You don't know that it was pretending to be Sam. It could have been anyone, anything. We have no idea whether or not it's even capable of that."

Dean nodded, tried to quell the nausea. "Yeah. Yeah. You're right."

Cas stared at him for a second, still clutching his shoulders.

Dean stared back, wondering what he was looking for. "I'm fine," he said uncertainly. "It didn't try anything. I'm good." _You can go._

And then Cas kissed him hard and quick, pressing their mouths together with a fervency Dean recognized as relief. Then he yanked back, looking as shocked as Dean felt, and before Dean could even blink he was gone.

Dean just blinked some more, stunned. _What the hell was that?_ He suppressed the urge to touch his lips in astonishment like a clichéd teenage girl and laid back down on the futon. The memory of Sam jerking his wrist away replayed crisp and bright in his mind. _I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry…_

He spent the rest of the night wide awake.

He wished he could stay awake forever and never go back to sleep.

…..

Before his adventure in dreamland, Dean had had a pretty not-terrible day. Cas had pulled out all the stops and blown his Metallica-loving mind, and then dropped him off at Lisa's without so much as a "g2g ttyl!1!" It irked Dean to no end, but whatever. Dude didn't handle touchy subjects well, and Dean was gonna have a talk with him about that later, but for now there was no point in getting his panties in a twist.

The fact that he was able to actually let go of insignificant annoying bullshit like that instead of stewing about it and working himself up into a good insensible rage was, well. Kind of a fucking miracle.

When Lisa had come home she was so impressed with the carpet ("Wow, Dean, it's like new!") that Dean had begun to worry that this vacuuming thing was going to become a regular gig of his if he wasn't more careful. _Maybe I can hire Cas to keep coming back_, he'd mentally quipped. _Castiel's Cleaning Company. If we can't clean it, it's probably from hell!_

After dinner, she'd made chocolate chip cookies, which had Ben bouncing off the walls asking "Are they _done_ yet Mom I can _smell_ them they smell like they're _done_ did you _check_ them, Mom," and to tell the truth, Dean was at a pretty similar level of excitement. When she'd finally pulled them out and set them on a rack to cool, he and Ben had both eyed them and hovered in a one-foot radius, glancing at each other and asking, "Do you think they're cool yet? They're probably pretty cool by now."

At long last, the cookies had cooled enough to eat, and they tasted so good that Dean nearly died. The chocolate was all melty and gooey and they were perfectly golden browned, and Dean literally couldn't remember the last time he'd gotten homemade cookies while they were still warm.

"Lifa," he'd mumbled around a mouthful, "feefe cookief are fantaftic."

"Mom makef fuh beft cookief," Ben had chimed in happily, crumbs spilling out of his mouth. "Sheef _awefome_."

Lisa had rolled her eyes and chided "Please, boys. Chew, swallow, and _then_ compliment the chef," but Dean could tell she was pleased.

Of course, when she'd said "boys," Dean's chewing stopped for a second, because he and Sam had always been "the boys" to all their acquaintances who were over forty, never mind that they were grown men. And of course, they'd always been "you boys" to Dad. But it was just a second, and Dean determinedly refocused on how incredible the cookies were and how nice it was of Lisa to make them. The ache in his chest was barely noticeable.

Once it was time to go to sleep, however, Dean had been confronted by the problem gnawing at the back of his mind all day: Cas.

This –_ thing_ with Cas, whatever it was, was troublesome for several reasons. First of all, Cas was a dude. For some reason, that didn't bother Dean nearly as much as it should. Maybe because he'd already fucked the guy (twice), and his body hadn't seemed to care? Maybe Before-Dean would have quibbled about semantics. After-Dean thought sex was sex. Second of all, Cas was an _angel_. This had to be some kind of horrible eternal-torment-worthy sacrilege. But then again, if Dean wasn't already damned to the ninth circle of hell for all the shit he'd pulled during the apocalypse, it seemed unlikely that a little angel-banging would do the trick. Finally, and this was the most troubling of all: Cas was only sticking around until this "dark presence" business got sorted out. Which, frankly, didn't motivate Dean to do shit. Let Cas fret and flutter his little wings about some weird shadow; it was probably just some leftover low-grade hellspawn, and would slink away with its tail between its legs once it got wind of Lucifer's defeat. Meanwhile, Cas was in the neighborhood, and that was fine with Dean.

But eventually, the thing would leave. Cas would leave with it. And Lisa, Lisa was making him goddamn cookies and being this perfect, generous, and like Ben said, _awefome_ woman. Though Dean knew she was way too sensitive to articulate it, he knew there was an implicit expectation that they were going to be together when Dean was ready. Already this thing with Cas was starting to feel like… like some kind of cheating. Here he was, eating her food and sleeping on her futon, playing the poor unemployed wounded soldier, and then sneaking off to knock boots with another dude in some skeezy motel. Deep down, he knew that it would hurt Lisa if she knew. That it would violate her understanding of their relationship.

It made him feel like he had to choose. Short term fun with Cas, or long term stability with Lisa? The answer should have been obvious.

_Should_ have been.

_But, it doesn't _feel_ short term_, Dean mentally argued. _It doesn't feel "fun." It feels _necessary_. It feels like a life raft in the middle of a wide, cold ocean. It feels… _right_. _

_Doesn't _this_ feel right too? _another part of him challenged. _Don't Lisa and Ben make you feel like you have a family again? This is what Sam wanted for you. This is what you wanted for yourself. There was a time when you'd have given anything to have this, _anything_, and now you're just gonna throw it away for some guy_ _who's_ going back to heaven?

When he'd finally drifted off towards sleep, Dean's last thought was, _Damn, I went from _Breakfast Club _to _Bridget Jones's Diary_. When did my life become a chick flick?_ _Oh yeah. When I nailed an angel, that's when. Good going, Dean._

_Also, how the hell do I know the plot of _Bridget Jones's Diary?

It was only half an hour later that he was being shook awake, feeling like he'd lost Sam all over again.


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: _Thank you, thank you, thank you, _thank you_. Everybody who reviewed, thank you. You are now an honorary member of Team Free Will by virtue of your sheer awesomeness. Be sure to tell all your friends, family, neighbors, acquaintances, and passers-by, and please keep it up. _

_I think we've only got one, maybe two chapters left to go here, so thanks for stickin' with me. This is, to date, the longest fanfic I've ever written, and it was all made possible by you guys. I swear to God, once I'm finished with this behemoth, I will write a short, fluffy, ridiculously sweet story in which the only plot points are that Cas and Dean snuggle for two hours straight and share Eskimo kisses. Maybe *plot twist!* they will have a _tickle fight_. _

_But for now, I have another chapter of pain and doom and gloom, with some light fluff sandwiched in there. Enjoy! Oh, and yes, the song is "Time in a Bottle." You'll understand when you get to it. _

* * *

Castiel was beginning to realize that he didn't know what he was doing at all.

He'd been peering out into the night, searching for that elusive shadow, when Dean had cried out in his sleep. Castiel had looked and realized that Dean's dream was as perfectly dark and silent as the presence in the yard, and he did the worst possible thing he could have done: he panicked.

What Castiel should have done was assess the situation calmly. He should have entered Dean's mind steathily, prepared for a combative scenario, and seen for himself what the presence was and what it was doing. It was the perfect opportunity to observe the presence in an environment where it would be difficult to detect him; human dreams were full of false alarms and pale imitations. Camouflaging oneself would be easy. Then he could have discerned its nature and its motives, perhaps even killed it before it left Dean's mind. Any threat posed to Dean would be easily neutralized.

That is what he _should_ have done.

Instead, the sharp keen of pain that escaped Dean's lips sent a wave of fear crashing over him, and in an instant he was at Dean's bedside, shaking him awake, his only coherent thought that he _needed to get Dean out of there_. Luckily, Dean was unharmed – but Castiel had still blown their biggest chance at uncovering the dark presence.

He understood now what his superiors meant when they accused him of letting his closeness with Dean cloud his judgment.

Dean, of course, was troubled by the implications of the event. Castiel was simply grateful that nothing serious had occurred. The fear unclenched in his gut and he was filled with a sense of relief so intense that, without even consciously choosing to do so, he kissed Dean – kissed him as if to assure himself that yes, he was alright, yes, he was still breathing. It was his second stupidly impulsive action of the night.

This love Castiel had for Dean was quickly becoming dangerous. Frightening, even. He'd only had sex with the man twice and already his body was reacting to Dean's without his permission. How much control over himself would he retain when they'd slept together five times? Or ten? When he'd begun this enterprise of being Dean's outlet, he'd told himself that this entire liaison was for Dean's benefit, that he could staunchly remain unaffected. He had believed that his intentions were pure, and as such, incorruptible. He had believed that it was duty and obligation to see Dean through to the end, and that giving him brief respite from his pain in a dingy motel room was the least he could do.

In truth, he didn't just feel obligated to allow Dean these small favors. He _wanted_ it. He wanted whatever Dean would give him, would take whatever facsimile of love the hunter was capable of showing him, was aching to have a place in Dean's heart, no matter how small, and he was trying to heal Dean not because Dean needed it now but because he'd _always_ needed it and Castiel had _always_ longed to and Dean was only _now _weak and broken enough to let him. Some part of Castiel had known that from the beginning.

_We see how it is_, he could almost hear his brothers sneering. _You prey upon the cold and lonely, the ones who need a placeholder in their lives for the missing object of their affection. I believe the Winchesters once knew someone like that… what was her name? Ruby? _

_No,_ Castiel defended. _I am not Ruby; I don't use Dean, I don't manipulate him. I'm just trying to help him the only way I know how. I love him. _

_You think that's love? _they retorted_. One-sided obsession? Listen, Castiel, when know what you're thinking of doing, and it's stupid. You're fooling yourself if you think he loves you back. Dean loves you like he loves a water bottle in the desert: you satisfy a need, that's all. And when he's not thirsty anymore… into the recycling bin you go. _

_That's not true! _Castiel inwardly bit back. _Dean isn't like that. He appreciates our relationship and everything I do for him._

_Oh, he won't _mean_ to hurt you,_ his imaginary brothers cooed condescendingly. _But surely you've noticed the revolving door of women coming and out of his life, Castiel. It's in his nature. You'll always be a commodity to him, and you have an expiration date. _

_I am _not_ one of his _whores_, _Castiel mentally growled. _ And in case _you_ haven't noticed, neither is Lisa or Ben! Dean Winchester desperately needs to be loved, and not in the physical sense. He is _destroyed _and _defeated_ from thankless hours spent fighting _your_ battles for you and sacrificing _everything _that he holds dear, and he deserves at least _one_ person in the universe who can _give him what he needsin the manner that he needs it_. So shut. The fuck. UP. _

And, frankly, Castiel's brothers would be shocked speechless by that. He imagined them flying away abruptly, the only sound in the room the fluttering of flustered wings.

He chuckled to himself.

…..

The next day was… not a good day. In fact, Dean would say it was downright horrible.

The bearable steady toothache of pain that had become a part of Dean's daily routine grew into a throbbing, splitting headache, and every throb was _Sam. Sam. Sam._ It was almost as bad as the day he'd shown up on Lisa's doorstep. It was difficult to concentrate on anything, difficult to listen to what people were saying and respond appropriately, because he was trying so hard to keep it together.

When the Impala wouldn't start in the morning, he nearly broke down. That's how close to the edge he was. He collected himself in the driver's seat for a moment, clutching the steering wheel with white knuckles, Ben watching him curiously, before he took a deep breath and managed to reassure the kid, "It's alright, she just needs a jump. We can fix her when your mom gets home. We'll call a cab."

Ben was more than okay with this. He was the only kid in his class who got to ride a taxi to school, and he got to ride it with _Dean_.

When Dean got back to his car and tried the ignition again, she purred like kitten. He rested his head on the steering wheel and muttered, "Just one of those days, just gotta tough it out, just one of those days…"

Dean stumbled around like a zombie all afternoon, quietly and slowly trying to find something, _anything_ he could do that would take his mind off of the hole in his chest, but nothing worked. Lisa must have noticed, because after Ben went to bed, she took out a couple beers and steered him towards the couch.

"Dean." She sat down and patted the seat next to her. "Have a chat with me."

Dean sat obediently, too worn to make a lame quip about therapy or chicks and their talking. Honestly, all he could think was _God, she's just how Sammy used to be, watching me like a hawk and demanding that we talk everything to death. I never thought I'd miss that about him, but Christ I do_.

"It seemed like things were going better there for awhile," she said, her face open and concerned. "And then today... Did something happen, Dean?"

And suddenly Dean realized how stupid he'd been for not mentioning this whole thing before, because what if the thing that was following him was after Ben and Lisa? He was putting their lives in danger by underestimating this creature. No more. "You remember how I told you Castiel, the angel, went back to heaven?" he began.

Lisa nodded.

"Well, he didn't. He came back to warn me that there's something following me, something that can hide itself from angels," Dean explained grimly. "Last night, I was dreaming about Sammy, and Cas says it was in my dream." He dug his fingernails into his palm, letting the sharp bite keep him grounded, trying to keep his voice from sounding as raw and scraped bare as he felt. "I think it might be pretending to be Sam, because it knows I'll trust it. And I've spent the whole day trying to figure out what the hell I'm gonna do if I have to kill it while it's wearing Sam's skin, if I have to shoot my little brother in the face because I can't, Lisa, I can't do it and I don't want to –" The tears he'd been holding in all day started rolling down his face, unbidden, and once they started he couldn't stop them. He bit the inside of his lip and squeezed his eyes shut, wishing he could be marginally more functional.

"Dean. Dean. It's alright." Her weight shifted on the cushions, and warm arms were circling around him, pulling him close, and he wrapped his arms around her and buried his face in her shoulder, trying to quell the hot, silent tears that kept on trickling out. And for a second, just a split second –

He wished she were Cas.

And goddamn, that him cry harder, because what the hell was he doing? Poor Lisa, offering herself as his human Kleenex and here he was imagining she was someone else, someone who would kiss him and not stop kissing him until his tears were gone and _shit_, that was messed up because Lisa _wanted_ to kiss him, he knew she did, but for some reason Cas was the only person in the world Dean could think about kissing, touching, comforting _back_ and God, Dean was so fucked up.

Lisa, fucking saint that she was, just rode it out, rubbing small circles on his back and making soothing noises, just like if she was holding a frightened Ben. And maybe that was why he loved her in the weirdly platonic way that he did, because she was the mother he'd lost in the fire so many years ago. God knows that he'd _needed _his mother when Sam died, but that wasn't what Lisa signed up for.

After Dean had managed to suck it up and choke down his beer, Lisa went off to bed, and Dean knew she was just trying to give him some space. He heard her turn on the television in her room, and he did the same, letting the tinny canned sitcom laughter drown out the damning quiet in the den.

He felt like the biggest son of a bitch in the world.

Hours later he somehow ended up out on the patio, sitting on the step, his body slumped against the wooden railing. Staring into the darkness. Wondering if he was staring at it right now.

Something caught the corner of Dean's eye, and he didn't even have to turn his head to know it was Cas, noiselessly coming to sit beside him.

They sat in silence until Dean couldn't take it anymore.

"Can't sleep," he muttered.

"Can't, or won't?" Cas returned, steadfastly peering into the night.

"Both," Dean admitted. He sighed and pressed his temple into the corner of the rail. "I wish I was still angry. Instead, I'm just… tired." He chuckled bitterly. "And I can't friggin' go to sleep."

He could feel Cas turn his head to face him. "You need rest. We'll confront it tomorrow night and draw it out of hiding." He paused. "I'll kill it, Dean. If it comes to that. You don't have to bear that burden."

Dean rolled his head towards Cas then, met his eyes. "And then what? You fuck off again?" He smirked, and it felt sharp and forced. "You be careful where you shuck off that meat suit, Cas. Dead bodies tend to create a stir."

Cas stared, steady and unblinking. "I'll come back when I can."

Dean laughed dully, bowing his head and shaking it ruefully. "You don't get it, do you? It's not going to be the same, Cas. I'm human. I'm used to bonding with faces, bodies. Why else do you think I've got such a fucking complex about this thing looking like Sam? You go back and things won't ever be the same between us." He concentrated on looking at his hands. "Hell, I don't even really know how things are between us _now_, but. I'll miss it. And we'll never get it back."

Cas turned away then, nodding slowly. "Then I suppose…" His voice was heavy and resigned. "I shouldn't come back."

Dean's eyes stung, and he glared at Cas. "Goddamn it, Cas, why do you gotta say shit like that?"

Cas looked back at Dean. His mouth was a hard line, and those stupid big blue eyes were all soft and sad.

Dean made a noise of exasperation. "That's exactly what I'm talking about!" he said with a scowl, pointing his index finger in Cas's direction accusatorily. "It's un-friggin'-fair. You make those goddamn puppy-dog eyes and it makes me want to just –" And before he knew what he was doing his hands were on Cas's face and he was kissing him, slow and deep and burning.

Cas kissed him back, hot and smoldering and carefully measured, and suddenly the memory flashed through Dean's mind: _I lost control. For that I'm sorry. It _won't happen again_._

Dean knew what he wanted to do before Cas left for good.

He tackled Cas and they tumbled into the grass, the scent of freshly mowed lawn diffusing into the warm night air. Dean pinned him down and kissed him some more, and if the hand clutching his back and the one in his hair was any indication, Cas didn't mind at all. Dean ground his hips down a little and grinned against Cas's lips when he heard his soft groan. There was something welling inside of him, familiar and warm, something he thought he'd never feel again, and he didn't want to lose it. He moved down to the underside of Cas's jaw, kissing and grazing with his teeth, loving the way Cas's breath hitched, the way his fingers tightened.

"Dean," Cas began breathlessly. "Do you want –"

"Sshhh," Dean interrupted softly, chuckling into his neck. "Just let me take care of you, Cas."

…..

Dean woke up at daybreak, squinting groggily and trying to remember why he was sleeping in the middle of someone's backyard.

_Oh yeah_. A lazy grin spread across his face. _Now I remember_. He remembered the way a very literal _light_ had glowed in Cas's eyes when he came, like some of his very soul was leaking out. He couldn't forget that sight, not ever. _I got him to lose control, all right_._ Score one for Dean Winchester._

But really, he knew that score belonged to Cas. Somehow, the dude had managed to – to revive a part of Dean he'd thought was dead forever.

And after tonight, he'd be gone.

Dean shook the grass out of his hair, brushed it off his arms and legs the best he could. He was kinda stiff from spending the night on the ground (_gettin' old, Winchester_) but nothing too bad. He tiptoed inside as quietly and noiselessly as he could, and by some miracle he was the first one awake. By the time Lisa was up, he'd taken a shower and thrown his clothes in the wash, and he was free and clear.

Yeah, maybe it was a good thing Cas was leaving. This was _really_ starting to look like cheating.

He drove Ben to school, feeling magnanimous and letting the kid – _just this once, _he emphasized – fiddle with the radio. Ben luckily had similar tastes as Dean, but there really wasn't much in the way of classic 80's rock stations in this town. The closest thing was an "oldies" station, which made Dean snort, but whatever. They had some AC/DC, so it was bearable, and Ben liked to talk a lot anyways.

There was some pansy-ass folksy Jim Croce playing in the background as Ben hopped out of the car, and when he slammed the door, the wistful chorus suddenly filled the car.

"Oh, there never seems to be enough time/ to do the things you wanna do once you find them…"

Something twisted strangely in Dean's chest.

"I've looked around enough to know/ that you're the one I wanna go through time with…"

And Dean turned the radio off. Enough 70's hippie drivel. He pulled out of the school parking lot and drove back to Lisa's with Led Zeppelin blasting through his speakers.

It wasn't until he parked the car in her driveway, and he turned off the ignition, that he realized he still hadn't shaken the song out of his head. He sat there for a moment in silence. _Oh, there never seems to be enough time to do the things you wanna do once you find them…_

Sam drummed his fingers on his knee impatiently and sighed.

"Alright, alright," Dean snapped.

Sam froze.

Dean froze.

Sam. Was sitting. In. The fucking. Car.


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: _I know I keep saying it, but it never gets old. Thank you, reviewers. There's clearly a loyal cadre of you that review time after time, and I truly appreciate it. _*breaks into song* You're beautiful! You're beautiful! You're beautiful, it's true! _*coughs* Uh, sorry, that was a bit much. If you haven't reviewed, it's not too late! Please review and make my day._

_Here's the second to last chapter. I know, sad, right? But also _yay_, because it means soon the characters get to stop crying all the time! Your reward for reviewing is that when I finish this, I will write a Destiel oneshot _so_ carefree and _so_ heartwarming that it would make Dean Winchester spin in his fictional grave if he didn't keep climbing out of it. (It will, of course, be tempered with sarcasm and snarky remarks on Dean's part. But it will still be friggin' adorable.)_

_And now the moment you've all been waiting for - Dun dun DUNNNN - SAM IS IN THE CAR!  
_

* * *

For a moment, time stood still. The two Winchester brothers were like perfect statues – no breathing, no blinking, just staring at each other, utterly and immovably still.

Then something invisible snapped.

"THE FUCK! THE FUCK! PUT YOUR FUCKING REAL FACE ON!" Dean roared, scrambling for the gun that was _supposed_ to be tucked into his pants. Son of a bitch! Why had he given up on concealed weapons? Fuckin' idiot! "YOU GODDAMN SONOFABITCH I AM GONNA PUT YOU IN THE _GROUND_!"

At the same time Sam was shouting "HOLY SHIT YOU CAN SEE ME SHIT DEAN IT'S ME IT'S ME I SWEAR TO FUCKING GOD IT'S ME!"

Dean was already halfway out of the car, opening up the trunk and _shit shit shit,_ he could barely load his sawed-off his hands were shaking so bad.

The thing that looked like Sam was out of the car and _holy shit_ Dean didn't think he'd heard the car door open. The thing was babbling nonstop in the way Sam always did in times of sheer panic, going "Dean, I'm Sam I swear to God I'm me I swear to fucking God but I don't know if holy water or rock salt or or or iron or any of that stuff is gonna work on me you gotta believe me man, I'm telling the fucking truth this IS my real face Dean I swear!"

Dean slammed the trunk lid and suddenly Cas was by his side, looking ready for battle. "What the fuck is it, Cas?" he demanded, pumping his shotgun and aiming it. "How the fuck do we gank this motherfucker?"

The thing that looked _and_ acted suspiciously like Sam was raising its hands and speaking slowly and clearly now, like he was trying to diffuse a hostage situation. "Wait, Dean, let's everybody just – _calm down_. I can disappear in a second, okay? I'm standing here in front of you because I am your brother, Samuel Winchester, and I'm not making any sudden moves, but seriously, it's me, I'll prove it to you, just – don't shoot."

Dean just kept the sawed-off aimed at his head.

"I don't know what it is," Cas said uncertainly. "I've never seen anything like it."

"Dude, _I _don't even know what I am," the creature that looked like Sam replied, looking exasperated, like _they _were the lunatics in this situation. "I don't even know how I got here. I'm like, like some sort of spirit, or something, like I died, but there's no reaper chasing after me, and I, I don't know if one's coming or not. Now, you're standing in the driveway of a nice neighborhood in broad daylight, pointing a loaded firearm at a man's face, and I'm not sticking around when the cops come. Would you like to take this inside?"

Dean growled, but it had a point. Goddamned suburbia. So he lowered his gun, _grudgingly_, and seethed, "Alright, but you walk in front of us where we can fucking see you. Don't pull any shit." He figured Cas could probably handle things if it decided to make a break for it.

Once they got inside, Dean slammed the door and snarled, "Okay, genius, start talkin'." He kept a good grip on his shotgun, just in case.

Sam (No! Shit! The thing that _looked_ like Sam) exhaled like he'd been holding his breath. "Alright. So, like I said, I don't know what I am, exactly. I don't know if your typical hunter's arsenal is going to work on me or not. I didn't even know I could become visible until now, and I don't know how long it's going to last –"

"So what _do_ you know?" Dean demanded.

"I know _anything_ you can ask me about our lives," he continued smoothly, his eyes confident. "I can tell you things about myself that nobody else knows." He snorted to himself. "I can tell you things about myself that _you_ don't know."

Well, a shapeshifter couldn't do that, not if Sam was already in hell before it could get his memories. Just about anything that could do that would need at least a piece of Sam, a piece of his soul or body, and if _that_ was plausible, then getting out of the cage was just as feasible… Dean pressed his lips together because _damn it_, he was starting to buy this bullshit. "Cas, could you give us a minute?"

Cas frowned disapprovingly.

"I can handle him," Dean assured. "Just one minute."

Cas vanished in a huff.

"Alright." Dean stepped closer and fingered the trigger. "If you really are Sam, tell me something nobody else knows. Something _I _know."

"Fine. Uh." Sam rolled his eyes upwards, racking his brain. Then his face lit up. "Okay, so I'm pretty sure you remember this. I was pretty little, like four or five, and Dad was filling up at a 7-11, and he got us both Slurpees…"

The room got tight and suffocating. Yeah, Dean remembered this story.

"And we were drinking them in the car while Dad was paying, and I dropped mine and it spilled all over the seat." Sam's eyes got distant and somewhat wistful. "I don't even remember the flavor, but it was bright red, and just – everywhere. I was sooo upset because I knew I was gonna get in trouble _and_ my Slurpee was gone. And you told me to quit crying like a baby, and you gave me your Slurpee and told Dad that _you _were the one that dropped it." He crossed his arms and laughed softly. "Now that I think about it, Dad must have known, because he wasn't even that mad, and he made us _both_ clean it out of the seat. But in any case, after that day we always had to finish our Slurpees on the bench outside. I figured you remembered because you didn't let Ben take his Slurpee in the Impala either."

Dean ground his teeth, wished Cas would hurry up and get back here because he was pretty sure he wasn't going to be able to hold out much longer. "_If_ you're Sam," he said, giving his gun a threatening shake, "and that's a big if, you've got a lot of explaining to do. Like why the _fuck_ you didn't come to me the minute you realized you were back." He clutched the gun hard, too hard, squeezing his fingers numb. "Do you have any idea what you _put me through?_" he spat.

Sam's face got hard then, that ever-present crease in his forehead deepening. "First of all, yeah. I kind of _do_. You were dead for _four months_, Dean. And second of all, why do you _think _I didn't come to you? I woke up in that cemetery, and nobody could see me, or hear me. They just complained about cold spots, weird noises. Electrical shortages."

Dean recalled the previous morning, when the Impala wouldn't start.

"I decided right then to give you a wide distance, Dean. Because I figured you'd be the same way, but you'd _know _what it meant, and you'd hunt my ass down and finish me." He rolled his shoulders uneasily. "And, considering that I dragged Lucifer _and_ Michael into the cage, the other side is kind of the last place I want to be right now." Sam sighed and closed his eyes, and for a second he flickered at the edges. "The dream thing was a mistake. I just – I just wanted to talk to you again."

"But that doesn't make any sense," Dean protested. "Spirits can't just follow people around from state to state. If you're some kinda – some kinda ghost, you'd be tied down to someplace, somewhere you lived or died or were buried."

Sam turned away and ran a hand through his hair. "It's the car, Dean."

Dean felt the blood drain out of his face. "What?"

"The car," Sam repeated heavily. "I'm tied to the Impala. Makes sense, when you think about it." He looked out the window to where it was parked in front of the house. "The farther from it I get, the weaker I get. I haven't tested the boundaries, or anything, but." He shrugged. "This morning, I was watching you take Ben to school, and you cranked up the Zeppelin on the way back, and I was remembering how it always used to be, sitting in the passenger seat and riding down the highway. And suddenly I _was_, and you could _see_ me. It was totally an accident."

Cas reappeared, looking just as disheveled as when he left. "Dean. This – _is_ Sam." He turned his eyes on Sam, wide and disturbed. "Or what's left of him, anyways."

Sam eyed Cas back, flickering and looking mildly offended.

"I thought you said you'd never seen anything like this before," Dean barked.

"I haven't," Cas replied grimly. "But now that I can see him more closely…. It must have been the demon blood he drank. It has given him powers that no spirit has a right to possess."

"He's right, Dean," Sam affirmed. "I can do things most ghosts can't do, especially not brand-new ones."

"Like?" Dean prompted.

Sam rolled his eyes. "Well, number one, I'm standing here in front of you, perfectly visible and holding conversation like a sane person."

Dean gave a nod of acquiescence. "Touché."

"And if I concentrate really hard, I can do things like this." And with one swift movement, Sam reached out, grabbed Dean by the shoulder and pulled him in for a tight hug.

Dean didn't even think, he just dropped the gun and hugged back, and _Jesus fucking Christ_ it felt so good to feel those ridiculously overlarge arms squeezing him to death, solid and real and fucking – _alive_. It felt like he'd been fighting a long, bloody, unstoppable, bone-wearying war and it was finally _over._

Oh yeah, he had, and oh yeah, it was, but it was only right this second that the burden finally lifted off his shoulders. He wouldn't ever admit it, but he was precariously close to breaking down into tears for the seventeenth time that week. _Don't do it, Dean, do _not _fucking start bawling again, please maintain at least a _shred_ of dignity._ God, the relief was just so incredible.

But a second later he realized he wasn't exactly able to breathe.

"S'mmy," he grunted, "sqshin'me."

"Sorry!"

And instantly Dean was clutching thin air. He stumbled forward and caught himself just in time.

Sam grinned sheepishly from across the room, scratching the back of his head. "Sorry, I was focusing so hard on staying solid, I didn't realize."

"Friggin' Sasquatch," Dean grumbled, trying his damnedest to keep a straight face and failing. It was fuckin' _Sam!_ Fuckin' _here!_ He turned to Cas and –

Cas was gone.

"God_damn_it," Dean swore. He spun around irately, and then glared heavenward and pointed threateningly. "You better not fuckin' leave without sayin' goodbye, you _hear me?_" he bellowed.

Sam raised his eyebrows and crossed his arms. "Yes, Dean, yell at the attic," he encouraged in a patronizing tone. "That's where _all _the angels go when they disappear."

Dean glared. "Shut your piehole."

Sam made a face. "Jerk."

Dean smirked back. "Bitch." And suddenly his goddamned throat was tight and his eyes were stinging again, and there was something dead serious that he _had_ to say. He took a deep breath, and looked straight into Sam's eyes. "Sammy. I fucking love you. You know that, right?"

Sam looked taken aback. "Yeah, Dean, of course."

"It's just." Dean swallowed, trying to make that stupid lump go away. "That was something that I. I looked back, and I realized I didn't tell you damn near enough. So. There it is."

It was Sam's turn to try and blink away the telltale glint in his eyes. "I know, Dean. I – I love you too."

They stood in silence for a second, both quietly appreciative of the mere fact that they were standing in a room, _together,_ and how firmly each had believed they would never have that chance again.

Dean cleared his throat and looked away. "Aaand our ovaries should be synching up any day now."

Sam threw his hands up in the air. "God forbid Dean Winchester have a _moment_."

Dean grabbed his shotgun from the floor. "Oh, quit your whining. Keep it up and I'll take away your Midol."

"Dean." Sam was serious again, his voice low and warning. "You realize this isn't over, right?"

Dean looked at him blankly.

"I don't have a _body_," Sam reminded him, a momentary flicker proving his point. "My ties to the physical plane are – tenuous, at best. And someone could come for me any day and try to drag me away."

_Ah. _That's_ what he's worried about_. "I know," Dean assured him. "That's why we're gonna hit up Bobby, find out what he knows, and then we're gonna pay a visit Missouri Mosely and every damn psychic and witch and voodoo priestess across the nation if we have to, and we're gonna find out how to get back your meat-suit." He grinned widely, feeling reckless and exhilarated. "So pack your bags, Sammy boy! We're blowin' this popsicle stand!"

…

Sam and Dean screwed around in Lisa's house for the next hour or so, testing what Sam could and couldn't do. It turned out that the visibility thing wasn't going to be an issue. "It's like – flexing a muscle I didn't know I had," was how Sam explained it. "Now that I know how to do it, I don't think I'm going to have any trouble with it."

The "incorporeal" problem was another matter. Things like flicking light switches and turning the pages of a book didn't take much effort, but typing on a laptop was a little more difficult. "It's actually easier to shove things, just – brute strength," Sam commented, peering at the keyboard and tapping tentatively. "This… takes more dexterity. More practice."

"Wait - dude, can you like, go _inside_ the computer and type from in there?" Dean asked excitedly. "I think I heard spirits can do that."

Sam gave him a Look. "No, Dean. That was 'Ghostwriter.'"

"But have you _tried_?" Dean pressed.

Sam glared. "That's not how computers _work_, Dean!"

"But that one chick did it!" Dean insisted, clicking his fingers to jog his memory. "That, that dead prostitute, in Baltimore, who got murdered by the dirty cop? What was her name… She kept printing out clues! From a _computer!_"

"Look, man, I am not _possessing_ Lisa's _laptop_ so just give it up!"

"But –"

"_No!_"

Dean glowered for a minute while Sam ignored him and typed some more because _seriously_, it was just like Sam to shut down any ideas that sounded remotely awesome. He was still secretly enjoying the fact that Sam was _here _to be a buzzkill pain in the ass, but he couldn't let Sam just get away with that shit. And also, where the hell was Cas?

"By the way, what did you do with _my_ laptop?" Sam inquired.

"Trunk," Dean muttered. He glanced at the clock. If that goddamn Constantine knockoff had gone back to heaven, he was gonna –

"I'm sure he'll be back any minute," Sam remarked.

"For the love of – Don't tell me _you _can read minds now too!" Dean exclaimed.

Sam snorted. "No. 'Course not. You keep looking at that clock every two minutes and scowling. Doesn't take a psychic to figure that one out." He glanced at Dean out of the corner of his eye. "Why are you so antsy about it, anyway? The guy tends to do this kind of thing on a regular basis."

"Yeah, but." Dean rubbed the back of his neck; talking about this kind of thing was a lot less awkward in his dreams. "The reason he was sticking around was you. He could see there was something following me, but didn't know what it was, and he said he was going to wait until we got it sorted out to head back to the ol' happy hunting ground. And once he does, he's not gonna." He swallowed, ignoring his burning cheeks. "He's not gonna have the same vessel anymore."

Sam looked as if he wasn't sure what to say. He turned to Dean, his gaze searching. "So, once he goes back –"

Dean nodded. "We're calling it quits." He wouldn't meet Sam's eyes. It was easier to feign nonchalance that way, easier to pretend that he wasn't going to miss the fucking hell out of that winged son of a bitch.

Sam was still staring at intently him, though. "You don't think he'd stay if you asked him to?"

_That_ surprised Dean. "He's got a lot of important shit to deal with in heaven, I guess. Can't say I'm too enthused about it, but then I think most angels are uptight douchebags who deserve a little shaking up. In my opinion, Cas is way too good for those assholes, but my understanding is that he'll kick some ass and take some names. So it's all for the best."

"You didn't answer my question," Sam said.

Dean frowned. _What was the question again?_

"Would he stay," Sam repeated pointedly, "if you asked?"

Dean shrugged like he couldn't care less. "Iuhno. Maybe." Gee, was that a bald patch outside on the lawn? It sure was more interesting to look at than Sam's face.

Sam wouldn't let up. "Then why don't you?"

"Why don't I what?" Dean inquired innocently.

"Why don't you _ask!_" he answered, flickering in irritation. "Christ, Dean, I know you have the emotional maturity of a twelve year old, but I think it's pretty clear to everybody in a five mile radius that you _want him_ to stay, and when he leaves, you're going to be miserable. Suck up your manly pride and just friggin' ask him to stick around for awhile!"

"Yeah, and then what?" Dean demanded hotly. "Cas follows us around like our celestial sidekick? Yeah, he can, he can run our errands and clean our guns, and then we can teach him how to hustle pool and dig up graves! Swell idea, Sammy, I'm sure he'd be reeeaal fuckin' happy!"

"I'm not telling you to chloroform him and shove him in the trunk!" Sam retorted loudly, standing and gesticulating widely with his hands. "I'm telling you to just. Fucking. ASK. What part of that don't you get, Dean? Cas is an _angel, _a fucking _rebel angel_,and he doesn't answer to you or anybody else. You can't _make _him do anything. Everything he does, he does because he wants to do it! If he's here, it's because he wants to be here. If he stays, it's because he _wants_ to stay! You're not protecting his best interests, you're protecting yourself, and I'm telling you Dean, you're not doing yourself any favors by pussying out. You're just racking up _another_ _regret_ to add to the _Winchester collection_ of_ bad mistakes!_"

And then the power went out.

The two brothers stood in chagrined silence.

"Sorry," Sam muttered.

Dean huffed a laugh. "Goddamnit, Sam. I've missed you."

Sam blinked in surprise.

"I'll fuckin' ask." Dean turned away and started towards the fuse box. "But you owe me about five drinks tonight when he says no."

"I don't have any money!" Sam called after him. "I'm a demon ghost, remember?"

_Son of a bitch_.


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: _And now, the moment you've all been waiting for: the very. Last. Chapter. _

_To everyone who reviewed, thank you. You are the reason that this story even got this far. As Chuck says, endings are hard. I hope you like my ending, or at least don't hate it, because I wrote it with you in mind and I really do care what you think of it. _

_As for the ridiculously fluffy fic you've been promised? It's in the works. It's gonna be a short oneshot, so it may even go up late tonight, if not tomorrow. I stay true to my word, folks. It will contain snuggles, tickling, and there will be at least a brief mention of Eskimo kisses. "But thecouchcarrot, you can't do all that AND keep Dean in character," you protest. "It just can't be done!" Oh yeah? _Just watch me_. _

_And now, without further delay, Chapter 7. _

* * *

When Castiel returned, Dean was in Lisa's basement, shining a flashlight at her fusebox and muttering at it. Dean's back was turned to him, and Castiel took the opportunity to silently observe the man.

Dean's emotions were as clear as day. His overwhelming happiness was suffused with a tight anxiety, apprehension that had nothing to do with the apparent power outage. Castiel couldn't discern what he was nervous about without peering into his mind, so he let it lie. Dean's jacket had been cast on the floor, and the tension was visible in his taut shoulders, the slightly defensive cast of his posture. His shirt was an older one, just a little too tight, clinging to the defined muscles of his back, his well-worn jeans hugging his body in all the right places, and suddenly Castiel's thoughts were wandering into entirely different territory.

Making love with Dean Winchester had been the single most pleasurable experience of Castiel's entire existence. He had finally understood why Dean had been so concerned that he would die a virgin, and why Anna had chosen to fall. When sex was good, it was… incredible.

_Dean_ was incredible.

That being said, Castiel knew that that particular session had been offered as a parting gift, the exception to the rule. Like a miracle, it was intended as an unrepeatable performance, a once-in-a-millennium event. An extraordinary singularity.

Watching Dean, Castiel wished miracles happened a little more often.

Finally the lights flickered on and Dean turned around, only to jump at the sight of Castiel. "Where the hell have you been?" he demanded angrily, even as relief and gladness coursed through him. He opened his mouth to continue berating, and then he stopped himself short, seemingly changing his mind. "Wait. No. You don't have to answer that. Just –" He sighed and clicked off his flashlight. "Okay, I've had enough heart-to-heart today to last me a lifetime, and God knows my manhood has suffered enough as it is, but there's some stuff I gotta say to you."

Castiel simply waited. Dean didn't need prompting.

Dean took a deep breath. "I owe you – so much," he began, faltering. "When Sam died, I couldn't. I couldn't see my way out from that dark place. I was spinning my wheels and I was stuck, trapped in my own personal hell and you – you pulled me out." His green eyes held Castiel's. "Just like you did before. There's no words for how grateful I am."

Castiel remained silent, sensing that he wasn't finished.

"You've seen me at my absolute worst, no exaggeration," Dean continued, chagrined. "I was a total dickhead to you, and you've been nothing but fucking awesome to me. I know you planned to head back upstairs as soon as this whole 'presence' thing got sorted out, but it's just when I'm starting to get my head on straight, firing on all six cylinders again and it just seems like you're getting the short end of the stick here, leaving right now, and I can't let you go in good conscience without asking – and I know I have no right to ask you this, but." That anxiety flared up again in him again, wavering and bright, and he paused a moment, his eyes flicking from Castiel to the floor and back again. "If you'd stay around a little longer," he said quietly, slowly, "I'd really like to try and make it up to you."

Castiel felt a strange, jarring hope. Like the world had suddenly shifted ever so slightly on its axis, and skewed everything imperceptibly, and maybe that extraordinary singularity didn't have to be so singular after all, and maybe the choices he'd made hadn't been as foolish as he'd feared.

"To answer your first question," Castiel began carefully, "I left because I wanted to allow you and Sam some privacy, which you usually indicate I don't give you enough of. I only meant to be gone for a few minutes, but I was contacted by a messenger from heaven. It seems that my brothers wish me to return, since God appears to have bestowed some sort of preference on me. They want me to negotiate and referee the new order."

Dean pressed his lips and nodded, looking downward and forcefully casual; disappointment and embarrassment sank heavily in his soul and burned.

"But I told them that I have unfinished business here."

Dean looked up, startled, eyes wide and disbelieving.

Castiel's lips curled upward, unable to hide the warmth unraveling within him any longer. "The presence has been identified, yes, but the problem is far from solved. Sam may be tainted, but he is no demon; he cannot hold a vessel in his state, at least not for extended lengths of time. Knowing you and your refusal to learn the meaning of the word 'impossible,' I would guess that you plan to procure a vessel anyway, perhaps even restore Sam's true body. And if you insist on such an insane mission, you'll need my assistance." Castiel forced himself to say the rest, to say it before Dean had to say it, when it would hurt much more. "Our… relationship has been unique, and now that Sam is back, things are… different. I understand if you would like to return to the platonic –"

And the rest of his words were lost in Dean's passionate kiss, leaving Castiel weak-kneed and breathless. "Platonic, my ass," Dean muttered hoarsely. "Fuck that noise."

Castiel couldn't agree more.

….

Explaining things to Lisa was surprisingly easy, since Sam had luckily mastered the whole popping-into-visibility thing. Without him, Dean would have looked like a lunatic hallucinating his dead brother, and a well-meaning Lisa probably would have sent him to the loony bin. As it was, she understood, and she was actually quite happy to meet Cas, who she'd "heard so much about." As sad as it was to leave, Dean was restless and ready to get on the road; he didn't want to delay Sam's problem any longer than he needed to. To be honest, he was ready to really _drive_ again, to get back into the ceaseless rhythm of the highway and feel the reassuring growl of the Impala's engine work its way into his bones. So, that evening he made his goodbyes.

Ben was standing in the hallway, his face scrunched up, rubbing his cheeks quickly in the clearly futile hope that Dean wouldn't see the few fat tears that spilled over his eyelashes. Dean knelt down to his level and offered him a Kleenex.

"I think there's s-s-somethin' in my eye," Ben croaked, scrubbing his fist against his eye vainly.

Dean nodded in agreement. "And you know, it_ is _allergy season. You remember what I taught you?"

Ben snuffled and held up three fingers. "Chicks dig a man with confidence," he recited in a quavering voice, "family comes first, and always spread the peanut butter, _then _the jelly."

"Exactly," Dean affirmed. "Now, I wanted to give you somethin'…" He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a cassette tape, rubbing the smooth plastic case with his thumb. "This," he explained, holding it up in front of Ben, "is a tape of all my favorite Kansas songs. Kansas the band, that is. And since I'm from Kansas the state, I thought I'd leave it with you as a little reminder." He looked at the tape; the name of the band was scrawled on the label in black marker, written more than a decade ago. _Gettin' old, Winchester._ "This tape has gotten me through a lot of hard times, and I hope it does the same for you."

Ben's eyes were wide and awed. "Thanks, Dean," he breathed, taking the tape gingerly like it was his most prized possession. Then worry flashed over his face, and he looked up at Dean anxiously. "Can I – can I say goodbye to the Impala?"

"Sure." Dean clapped him on the shoulder and gave him an understanding smile. "Why don't you run out there right now."

Ben dashed out the door, and Dean's eyes followed him from the window as ran to the Impala and threw his little arms over her, resting his cheek on her hood lovingly. Dean's heart squeezed painfully. _Fuck it, I don't even care how selfish it is. I _do_ wish he was mine._

"It's been good for him, having you around," Lisa murmured, coming up beside him and watching Ben. "Now that you've stopped trying to teach him how to beat up the other children."

Dean turned to face her, wearing a perfectly straight face. "Well, I realized that violence isn't the answer. Firepower is. I gave him a loaded Glock and told him to take it to school."

Lisa rolled her eyes. "Ha ha, so very funny. I can't _believe_ I ever distrusted you."

Okay, no more putting it off. It was time to have yet _another_ moment of painfully girly honesty, because Lisa fucking deserved that much. "Lisa…" Dean licked his lips, trying to find the right words. "I can't thank you enough for letting me stay here." He chuckled wryly. "Being both legally dead _and_ lacking any marketable skills, we both know I'm basically unemployable."

"I don't know," Lisa countered playfully. "Judging from my yard, I think you could've found something in landscaping eventually. I know a few guys who aren't too picky about visas."

Dean smiled. "In any case, you took me in, and you took care of me, and put up with my tendency to cry like a teenage girl watching 'The Notebook.' The debt I owe you in Kleenex and beer alone is staggering. So, I know I can never repay you, but…" He pulled a wad of bills out of his back pocket and folded it into Lisa's hands. "I'd like to try anyways."

Lisa's eyes went big. "Where –"

"Don't ask," Dean cautioned. "Trust me, you don't want to know." He had used the last of his fraudulent credit cards and gotten as much cash as he could from the ATM. It was hustling pool and card-sharping from here on out until he could apply for some new ones. He had a feeling Lisa would have some moral qualms about the origin of her money, but it was literally the least he could do for her.

Lisa gazed at him, all soft and doe-eyed, and she squeezed his arm. "You'll always have a place here, Dean. And…" She tucked her hair back, uncertain. "So does Cas."

Dean froze. _Does she – _

"I saw you kissing last night, on the patio," she explained apologetically. "Don't worry, I didn't wasn't spying on you or anything, I just went to check on you and. There you were!" She laughed nervously. "I just thought I should tell you that you. You don't have to hide him from me." Her eyes were just a little too bright. "I'm happy for you, Dean, I really am."

Dean stared at her for a moment, and then swept her into a tight hug. He was going to start a campaign to get Lisa canonized – no, knighted. She didn't realize it, but she was damn lucky that Dean was too brain-damaged to date her because she was way too fucking good for him. "You take care of yourself, Lisa," he told her, his voice thick. _It's gotta be that goddamn allergy season._ "If you ever need anything, just give me a call, and I'll be back before you can say 'get off my futon.'"

Ben trudged back in then, his eyes red but his face carefully dry. "Okay," he announced forlornly, his high little voice plaintive. "She's all yours."

Dean swallowed a chuckle, and he saw Lisa bite her cheek. "Thanks, buddy." He rested a hand on Ben's shoulder. "And remember, this isn't the last time you're gonna see her. We'll be back as often as we can, alright?"

Ben looked up mournfully. "You promise?"

Dean smiled. "Promise."

"Good, cuz I'm gonna miss – her," Ben said, obviously switching words at the last minute. Then he threw his arms around Dean's waist and hugged him fiercely.

Dean hugged back, trying not to topple over. "She'll miss you too," he replied sincerely. _Fucking allergies!_

Lisa shot him an apologetic glance and coaxed Ben off of him. "C'mon, honey." Ben pried himself off Dean and clung to her arm instead.

Dean grabbed his bag and opened the door, giving them both a grateful smile. "Thanks, guys. For everything. See ya 'round."

"Goodbye!" Ben wailed.

He closed the door behind him, feeling equal parts pain and relief. He'd miss them, he'd miss the _hell_ out of them, but he didn't belong there. He would always feel like the guy on the fold-out bed, a bad comedian doing a piss-poor impersonation of the average Joe.

He got into the Impala and saw them watching him out the window, and he waved one last time. They waved back, and then Lisa let the curtain slide shut.

_And that's the end of that chapter_, Dean thought with a twinge of wistful sadness. _Hope Chuck is getting this down. It's friggin' poignant. _

_I wonder whatever happened to Chuck. _

Sam flickered into the seat beside him. "Wow," he murmured. "They actually_ like_ you. Too weird."

"Of course they like me," Dean retorted. "I'm friggin' loveable."

"That's not exactly the word I'd use to describe you," Sam replied skeptically.

"What, then?" Dean arched his eyebrows and did his best Blue Steel impression. "Dashing? Charismatic? _Badass_?"

"Deluded," Sam corrected. "Unhygienic. Possibly diseased."

Dean smirked. "Hey, I'm not the one who got the clap."

"Can this conversation be continued while driving?" Cas asked.

They both jumped, and Dean was fucking glad they were still parked. "Warning!" he snapped. "Give us some goddamn _warning_, Cas! We talked about this. Just – cough or something!"

Cas coughed politely.

"Better," Dean muttered.

"Call me when you stop for the night," Cas continued. "I'll be waiting." And then he disappeared.

"Alright." Dean fumbled in his box of cassettes and pushed one into the tape deck. "Let's get this show on the road."

As the opening chords started, Sam grinned.

"Back in black/ I hit the sack /I've been too long, I'm glad to be back…"

And they drove off into the night.

* * *

A/N: _Thank you, every one of you, for reading. I don't know if this is a site-wide issue or just my account, but my story-traffic meter thingy is broken, so I don't exactly know how many of you there are. But I do appreciate it. _

_I know I didn't wrap up everything in a tidy bow. But the way I see it, it's just like on the show: every ending is also a beginning. If this story were on the show, I see this as a jumping off point for a season-long story arc that culminates with Sam getting his real body restored. "Why can't Cas just do it?" you might ask. "I mean, Dean didn't have any scars when he was raised, plus it was months after he died, so that means Cas can do the 'create your own flesh' thing." Um, because the demon-blood-taintyness thingy, that's why. And because I said so! _

_Please, please review. I worked hard to make this story believable from a canon point of view, true to the characters that the show has developed, and still entertaining and slashy as all hell. I hope I didn't disappoint. I'll catch you all on the next fic!_


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